His First First Lady Not By Choice
by paintedallup
Summary: Sylar/Claire; Spoilers for the season finale!


"You could be my first, first lady."

Every word he speaks does nothing but make me sick, and see the future that he describes with each single sentence and it doesn't look very _pretty_.

The hundreds of years stretching out before my eyes, the same face forever catch in time, all my time spent on one task alone killing Sylar (and escaping his clutches over and over again) and failing too many times until that one _lucky_ day.

(even if the world is in ruins because of him already, our _loving_ president)

"I'd rather die (a thousand and one deaths), you _son of a bitch_."

"Now we can't have that, not one bit."

-

If I had been like the rest of them, that are either dead and buried or fell in line like good little soldiers for their commander in chief, I would have done the very same thing.

(let the monster take what was left of me, become the first first lady)

But I have one thing that none of them had, no fear for the foe that took them over with just a smile and a handshake (and a few one liners _here_ and _there_).

No, instead of crushing me and making just a copy of myself (just like the rest of them with smiles of fear alone) which had been the plan from the beginning, when he offered his hand to take me into his sick and _twisted_ world, he created a hate that would not be tamed until I had his head in my hands.

A hate that made me able to handle all of the years, of lovers and family falling to time (instead of the villains we thought were going to be the end of us all) while I stay the same, no scars just years you can only see in the eyes and the fact that the naïve little girl is no longer there.

(but instead of becoming everything Peter feared, the _Peter_ that is still by my side over all these centuries, I'm still a hero body and soul ready to save the world)

Save the world, this time not only just New York, from the man that once filled my nightmares both asleep and awake.

-

"How many times does it come to, Mr. President?"

('always the kiss-ass, _Mohinder_, talking about all my favorite subjects, Claire Bennett and world control')

"At least thirty times this year alone but you never know today is the anniversary of Noah's death. She just loves to try and kill me on those days."

"Should we try and stop her, contain her, sir?"

"No, it's been ages since I've seen little Claire and besides it will be so much _fun_."

-

Besides _Elle_ (who never really counted to begin with) she would haven been my first, first to _love_, first to not _kill _only hurt every so often, and first one that I believe is my _equal_ and that my friends is something hard to be these days.

"Not trying to kill me I see, now that's a first."

Instead of the disgust that used to be all she had in her eyes back so long ago (in a time where Peter wasn't anything like me or one she called _lover_) all that's left is ice in her baby blues along with the hate that has only grown over the years, hate that just for me alone and no one else.

"_Sylar_ (sir or President are two words I'll never call him) I've decided to take your offer, to join forces become _l-lovers_, is it still on the table?"

Over the years there has been one thing I've been waiting for (besides my own death and Peter's head on a stick) not the end of the world or the whole thing in my open palm, no it's been this moment when I fully strip away all the goodness in the sweet little _cheerleader_.

(the one that's been on my mind since the start of this, the one that gave me forever and ever, the forbidden fruit for so many and myself)

"Of course just for you and you alone, _Claire_."

The hate, that has grown into something _twisted_ in such a short time, flares up melting the ice as instead of taking her outstretched hand to shake I take the one thing I've yet to taste, her lips that have been calling to me since that day so _very_ long ago.

(that day when a small bit of Gabriel came peeking out as I offered her life as '_my first first_')

"On second thought, _Sylar_, I think I'd rather kill you. (for the hundredth time in a row)"

The powers of a weak man, almost as sick as myself, grace my finger tips (the powers that are used on so many, as they follow orders to a T with some help from me) so she can't pull away or take out the blade that is digging into her palm, leaving not even one nick.

"We'll have to work on that, I'd rather not have my _wife_ murdering me in my sleep, well, if she can. I'm not called _the unkillable man _for nothing, dear. And I'd thought that Uncle of yours could have thought up a much better plan then this, sending his niece to do the dirty work. I bet he'll be worried when she never returns to him, don't you think so, _Claire_?"

This time I've got her in my clutches (sounding very much like a corny Disney villain) and there is no way I'm letting her slip away this time.

"Well, what do you say _first lady_? Are you ready to greet your people?"

(the people that are made up of villains and God fearing citizens, me being God but of course)

"I'll never be your wife, not in a thousands years, you _son of a bitch_. Peter will find me and kill or I'll find a way to kill you myself."

"_Ouch_, well, I'll just take that as a yes."


End file.
